


Latte

by Daena



Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: Coffee, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-09
Updated: 2012-10-09
Packaged: 2017-11-15 22:43:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 865
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/532589
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Daena/pseuds/Daena
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Misha knows just how Jensen likes his coffee.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Latte

The barista’s name is Misha.

Jensen has a crush on him, but then, anyone with a heartbeat probably would. He’s beautiful, mussed dark hair over the most piercing blue eyes the world has ever seen, and he makes a perfect latte. This particular coffeeshop is a little out of Jensen’s way, two blocks from his office at Morning Star Law Chambers, but he visits it nearly every morning and most afternoons, just to see Misha. There’s something compelling about the way he bites his lip as he steams the milk, carefully pours it over the coffee. Sometimes, when Jensen is particularly tired and he knows it shows, it comes with a fern design in the foam. It never fails to make him smile.

The girl at the cash register, Anna, is a redhead and fairly stunning, but Jensen can’t show the least interest in her. Not when two feet away, Misha is leaning against the counter, earphones tucked neatly into the shells of his ears, engrossed in Kurt Vonnegut. Jensen knows Slaughterhouse-Five inside and out, has read the book twenty-two times, but he can’t believe Misha is into that kind of thing. It makes him wonder what else they have in common.

“Hey, can I get a –” he begins in response to Anna’s welcoming smile, but she holds up a hand.

“Latte, extra shot, extra foam. Three fifty.” She turns, stretches out an arm to poke Misha in the shoulder with a lavender-painted fingernail. “Misha.”

Misha starts, electric blue eyes darting from her to Jensen, and he yanks the earphones from his ears. “Latte extra shot extra foam?”

The question is directed not to Anna, but to Jensen. He nods. “Yeah, the usual.”

Misha glances at his page number before closing the book, and grabs a cup off the stack, scribbling something on the side even though there are no other customers to confuse the order with. Jensen pays Anna without looking at her, gaze fixed on Misha’s hands as he works the grinder. Broad, strong hands with slender fingers. Jensen imagines them mapping his body, wandering across his skin.

The espresso is rich and dark as Misha pulls the shots, the reddish crema thick over it. Then he’s pouring milk, and Jensen holds his breath, studying Misha’s profile.

Those lips are full without being too pouty, and lightly chapped. And as Misha steams the milk, watches it foam with absolute concentration, there is a flash of teeth, and they come down on his lower lip. Jensen is hungry for the sight, envies the press of Misha’s teeth into his lip because he wants to be there so badly, beneath those teeth, between those lips. He wants to kiss that mouth. He wonders if Misha will taste like coffee.

The milk is finished steaming, and now it’s time for the part Jensen likes the best. Those sapphire eyes catch his, the contact longer than socially appropriate, and Misha shifts so that his back is to Jensen as he pours the milk.

Disappointment flares in Jensen’s chest. He can see the subtle movements of Misha’s elbow, knows he’s wiggling the pitcher as he pours to create a design, but can’t see exactly how he’s doing it, can’t see the delicate fern blossom from the crema and microfoam. Misha sets down the pitcher and turns, sliding the cup gently across the counter.

“Latte extra shot extra foam,” he says softly, but Jensen doesn’t even hear because it’s not a fern this time.

It’s a heart.

He looks up into Misha’s eyes, and sees near-perfect calm. But there’s a touch of panic buried in the blue, just a hint of fear that probably no one else would notice. But Jensen spends so much time staring at Misha that he has learned to read him like a book, memorized him better than Vonnegut.

He finally pulls the words from his throat. “Thank you.” He stumbles over it a little, and gives Misha a smile. He wonders how he will ever drink this latte. He’ll probably have to wait for the foam to dissolve into the coffee, for the heart shape to be gone, rather than destroy the work of art.

There is a tinny beeping sound – the alarm on his watch, letting him know he has five minutes before he’s late for work. Five minutes isn’t a lot of time to walk two blocks, particularly with a hot drink. Regretfully he turns, heads for the door. Something makes him pause, and he looks back to where Misha is still standing at the counter, looking at him with those beautiful eyes.

“I like Vonnegut too,” he says. “Slaughterhouse-Five and Cat’s Cradle are two of my favourite books.”

Misha flashes a quick grin that jolts through Jensen like an electric shock. “It’s Jensen, right? Good taste. Hope you enjoy your coffee.”

The thrill of that grin stays with him as he pushes through the door and out into the busy street, and it’s only when he sets down the cup at the office that he sees what’s written on the side. Misha’s name, in scratchy capital letters, and his phone number.

Jensen doesn’t stop smiling for the rest of the day.


End file.
